Oscar Wilde and the Murders at Reading Gaol: A Mystery (15 page)

‘Mr Wilde,’ admonished Dr Maurice, ‘I warned you before – beware of Warder Braddle. Do not make more of an enemy of him than you already have. Nothing can be gained by it.’

I smiled. ‘Is that why you have called, Doctor, to warn me of the dangers of Warder Braddle?’

‘No, I am doing my rounds, and I have come to offer you my condolences. Colonel Isaacson told me of your sad loss – and of your wife’s visit.’

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly. I felt humbled by the Scottish doctor’s kindness.

‘I trust Mrs Wilde is well,’ he said gently.

‘She calls herself Mrs Holland now . . . And I think she is well – or as well as can be expected. I have brought desolation upon her.’

‘Will she forgive you?’

‘She does forgive me. She is all goodness. And understanding.’

‘She knows your nature?’

‘She knows that she has always been central to my existence.’

‘Always?’ asked the doctor, widening his round eyes behind his round spectacles.

‘Yes,’ I answered, earnestly, ‘it was always to her that the cathedral that is my life and work was dedicated. Always.’

The good doctor smiled. ‘But you must confess you allowed individual side chapels dedicated to other saints . . .’

‘In accordance with the highest ecclesiastical custom!’ I replied. I laughed at myself, and then added, in all sincerity: ‘The candles that burnt at those side altars were never so bright or beautiful as the great lamp of the shrine which is of gold and has a wonderful heart of restless flame.’

‘You are a fine poet.’

‘But a poor husband.’

‘You did not help yourself. “I can resist everything except temptation.” I recall your line.’

‘I said it as a joke.’

‘And then lived the joke – and paid the price.’

‘If your sins find you out, why worry? It is when they find you in that trouble begins.’

The doctor removed his spectacles and, a little self-consciously, polished the lenses with his pocket handkerchief. ‘From what I have seen of the world, Mr Wilde,’ he said, ‘it seems that the appetites of the flesh desecrate always.’

I sighed and smiled. ‘Evidently, I should have played more golf!’

‘You played golf?’ he exclaimed, incredulous.

‘I did.’

‘Oscar Wilde played golf! Well I never . . .’

‘And I played it rather well, I will have you know. Ask Conan Doyle.’

Still chuckling, he returned his spectacles to his nose. ‘I shall,’ he said, emphatically.

‘You do not think that I will die at Reading Gaol, Doctor?’

He shook his head and bent down to retrieve his bag. ‘No, I do not. You will be out of here within eighteen months. And, who knows, from what you say, reconciled with your wife and reunited with your sons – if you can resist temptation . . .’

‘And if this oakum does not kill me – or drive me mad.’

The Scottish doctor examined my heavy sack of hempen rope and then considered the meagre pile of fibres lying on my table. ‘How much oakum do you pick each day?’

‘A pound,’ I said. ‘On a good day.’

‘That’s not much.’

‘I know. Warder Braddle tells me that the girls on E Ward do better. Six pounds is what I am supposed to pick.’

‘Yes. You are here for “hard labour”. That was the judge’s sentence, not Braddle’s.’

‘I cannot do it,’ I said, pathetically. ‘I will go mad.’

‘I will speak with Colonel Isaacson,’ he said, looking down at me once more. ‘Perhaps you can be found work in the laundry – or the garden. The garden would be more suitable for a golfing man. I will see what I can do. We don’t want you going mad.’ He placed a kindly hand on my shoulder. ‘And you are not dying. You lack mental and physical stimulus, that’s all.’

I looked up at him. ‘But the angel of death is close by,’ I said, almost in a whisper. ‘I can hear the beating of her wings. We are standing in her shadow, Doctor. Who will be the next to die?’

‘That’s in God’s hands, not mine. But men will die, here and the world over.’

‘But
here
– who is it to be, Doctor?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tell me,’ I persisted.

‘There is one two cells away who is poorly . . .’

‘Atitis-Snake?’

Dr Maurice shook his head. ‘No, he is neither sick nor mad nor old. But C.3.1. is in a bad way. It is no secret. He has been here many years. And he is old. It may be that his time has come. There is nothing sinister in that.’ The kindly surgeon moved towards the cell door. ‘I must see him now,’ he said. ‘I must finish my rounds. Meanwhile, take my advice. Do not brood on death – and beware of Braddle. Good day to you.’

When the doctor had gone I got up from my table and went to stand beneath the barred window of my cell. I gazed up at it and saw nothing but a rectangle of dull light beyond a rectangle of dirty glass.

‘God bless you,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned and there stood the prison chaplain, the Reverend M. T. Friend. I would describe him, could I remember what he looked like. I recall that he was neither tall, nor fair, nor handsome, nor short, nor stout, nor in any way remarkable. He pursed his lips before he spoke – that I do recollect – and his voice had to it a monotonous, plaintive, whining quality. His every utterance was banal.

‘Shall we say the Lord’s Prayer together?’ he enquired.

‘No,’ I shouted, angrily, glaring at him.

‘I am sorry to hear it,’ he answered.

‘Go,’ I cried. ‘For God’s sake, go.’

He placed the prayer book that he was holding on my table, alongside my few strands of pulled oakum. ‘I am doing my rounds and I find that there is a great deal of anger on this ward this afternoon. I am sorry for that.’

‘Are you surprised, sir?’ I cried. ‘What did you expect to find? Joy? Hope? Gratitude? Look!’ I threw my hands up towards my barred window. ‘Even by day, there is no light in this God-forsaken cell. This is a house of darkness. There is only ever anger or bitterness or despair to be found here. And today you have found nothing but anger. The dwarf is angry. The poisoner is angry. The sodomite is angry.’

The chaplain pursed his lips. ‘I must correct you, C.3.3.,’ he said primly. ‘I have just been with C.3.4. He is not angry, nor bitter, nor despairing. He is full of remorse and humility. I left him meekly kneeling upon his knees.’

‘And C.3.5.?’ I raged. ‘He is angry. I know. I saw him earlier outside the governor’s office.’

‘Then you know the cause,’ answered the chaplain. ‘His unfortunate wife – the tragic victim of his dreadful crime – she has died.’

‘I understood that she was in a coma?’

‘Until two days ago. God, in His infinite mercy, has released her.’

‘Will Atitis-Snake be tried again? Will the poor wretch be hanged?’

‘No, no. But it is certain now that he will never be released. And the dawning of such certainty affects a man. I have seen it before. He knows that there will be no earthly remission for his sin. He knows that, without question, he will remain in gaol for the rest of his natural life. He is angry for that reason.’

‘God help him,’ I cried.

‘God will,’ said the chaplain, complacently. ‘That is what God does.’ He ran his tongue along his lower lip to moisten it. ‘But you,’ he continued, ‘you who are only here for a matter of months – what provokes your anger? What purpose does it serve?’

I stood before the chaplain pointing to the barred window above me. ‘I cannot see the sky, sir. I cannot even see the clouds.’

‘Oh, my friend, let me entreat you to desist from such thoughts and not let your mind dwell upon the clouds, but on Him who is above the clouds.’

‘God Almighty,’ I cried, suddenly rushing towards the clergyman, who looked at me amazed.

‘“He that is slow to wrath is of great understanding,”’ he burbled, ‘“but he that is hasty of spirit exalteth folly.”’

‘Get out,’ I cried, taking his prayer book from the table and thrusting it into his hand as I pushed him towards the cell door. I flung open the door and bundled the hapless cleric out onto the gantry.

‘“A wrathful man stirreth up strife: but he that is slow to anger appeaseth strife.”’

I slammed shut the door and stumbled, shaking, to my bedside. Slowly, I lowered myself onto my knees and joined my trembling hands together in an attitude of prayer – as I had done every night as a small child in my parents’ house in Dublin.

As I closed my eyes, I heard the cell door open once more. From the catch in his breath I knew at once that it was Warder Braddle. ‘The chaplain has told me what you’ve been up to.’ He spoke calmly and barely above a whisper. ‘You will be whipped for this. It will be fifteen strokes of the birch. It cannot be less.’

The cell door clanged shut. I remained as I was, on my knees, my hands clasped before me, my head bowed. It was only a matter of moments before my prayer was answered. Warder Braddle fell to his death just after I had heard the church clock in the distance strike four.

12
A dying fall

‘H
e fell fifty feet, from the gantry outside your cell, C.3.3., to the ground two flights below. ‘He landed on the stone floor – on his back, with his eyes and his mouth wide open. The base of his skull was shattered. His neck was broken and his spine cracked. He must have died in that instant – at the moment of impact.’

Colonel Isaacson, the governor of Reading Gaol, sat behind his desk, glowering. His face was brick red and covered with a forest of wiry, black hair. His eyes were small and masked by trailing eyebrows. His body was squat and his long, ungainly arms led to square hands whose backs were covered in yet more black hair and on which the fingers looked like uncooked sausages. He was cursed with a remarkable ugliness which his churlish manner did nothing to mitigate.

Dr Maurice, the prison surgeon, stood at the governor’s right hand – a bearded and bespectacled Adonis beside an ape.

I stood on the other side of the governor’s desk, clutching my prison cap behind my back. ‘Why am I here, sir?’ I asked.

Colonel Isaacson cracked his knuckles and leant towards me. ‘Two reasons – the first of which is obvious. We are conducting a preliminary inquiry into Warder Braddle’s tragic and untimely death. We need to get at the facts – while they are fresh. You appear to be one of the last to see Warder Braddle alive.’

‘I did not see him,’ I said quickly.

‘The chaplain says that he left your cell a little before four o’clock and encountered Warder Braddle on the gantry. The chaplain says that he spoke briefly with Warder Braddle and saw Warder Braddle enter your cell immediately afterwards. The chaplain is quite clear about this, C.3.3. I know the chaplain well. I doubt that he is mistaken.’

‘Warder Braddle may have entered my cell, sir, but I did not see him. I heard his voice.’

‘You heard him, but you did not see him? Your cell was in darkness?’

‘No more than usual, sir. My eyes were closed.’

‘You were asleep?’

‘I was at prayer. I was on my knees at my bedside with my eyes closed.’

‘You were at prayer? I am surprised to hear it,’ said the governor. ‘The chaplain led me to believe that when he left you, you were in anything but a religious frame of mind.’

‘The chaplain is correct, sir. I behaved towards the Reverend Friend with great discourtesy. I apologise. But his religion, I fear, does not help me. The faith that others give to what is unseen, “above the clouds” as the chaplain put it, I give to what one can touch and look at. My gods dwell in temples made with hands. Within the circle of actual experience is my creed made perfect and complete.’

‘Made perfect and complete?’ The governor glanced up at the doctor and repeated my words wearily.

‘Too complete, it may be, sir,’ I hurried on, ‘for like many or all of those who have placed their heaven in this earth, I have found in it not merely the beauty of heaven, but the horror of hell also.’

‘Get to the point.’

‘What I am saying, sir, is that when I think about religion, I feel as if I would like to found an order of those who
cannot
believe: the Confraternity of the Faithless, one might call it, where on an altar, on which no taper burnt, a priest, in whose heart peace had no dwelling, might celebrate with unblessed bread and a chalice empty of wine.’